Donold J. Grump #10

Fore! The Grump Golf Classic

The morning sun gleamed over the meticulously groomed greens of Maga Logo’s private golf course. Birds chirped in the palm trees, the smell of fresh-cut grass hung in the air, and three figures—decked out in wildly mismatched golf attire—stood at the first tee.

Donold J. Grump adjusted his neon-yellow visor, glaring at his two sons. “Today,” he announced, puffing out his chest, “we’re going to prove that the Grump family is unbeatable on the golf course. Just like I’m unbeatable at everything. Golf, business, elections—you name it.”

Donold Jr., wearing a shirt so loud it could double as a fire alarm, nodded vigorously. “That’s right, Dad. We’re the best. The absolute best.”

Earwic Grump, who had been reluctantly dragged along, scratched his head under a lopsided bucket hat. “Yeah, sure, but, uh, where are the golf clubs? This cart’s full of beer.”

Indeed, the golf cart’s backseat was packed to the brim with cases of beer—domestic, imported, light, and dark. The only thing missing? Golf clubs.

Donold J. Grump frowned. “Who packed this cart?”

“I thought it was you!” Donold Jr. said.

“It wasn’t me,” Earwic grumbled. “I’m on a diet. I’m not even drinking beer!”

“Well, somebody packed it,” Grump huffed. “But there’s no room for the clubs now. Earwic, you’ll carry them.”

Earwic blinked. “All three bags? By myself? There are more carts over there!” He pointed to a line of unused golf carts parked nearby.

Grump waved him off. “Reserved for my friends. You don’t want to take away a cart from one of my very important friends, do you?”

Earwic groaned. “I don’t see anyone else out here.”

“Just carry the bags!” Grump snapped. “You could use the exercise anyway. That protein shake isn’t going to carry you to fitness.”

The First Tee

After much grumbling, Earwic hefted the three golf bags onto his shoulders, nearly toppling over as the weight shifted. He staggered behind his father and brother as they approached the first tee.

“Watch and learn, boys,” Donold J. Grump said, setting up his shot. “This is how a pro does it.”

He swung mightily, the club missing the ball entirely and sending a divot of turf flying through the air. It landed on Earwic’s head with a soft plop.

“Practice swing!” Grump declared, resetting his stance.

Donold Jr. was next. He swung wildly, his ball careening off a tree trunk and ricocheting back toward the tee box. Earwic dove for cover, the ball missing him by inches.

Finally, Earwic stepped up, huffing under the weight of the bags. “You want me to hit, too, or just play pack mule all day?”

“Stop complaining and hit the ball!” Grump barked.

Earwic swung with all his might, sending the ball soaring into the air... straight into the water hazard a few feet away.

“Nice shot,” Grump muttered.

Earwic growled.

The Caddie Chaos

As the game continued, Earwic’s frustration grew. Dragging three heavy golf bags while trying to play his own shots proved impossible. Every time he teed off, his father or brother demanded a different club, forcing him to drop his ball and rummage through the bags.

By the third hole, sweat poured down his face, and his patience was as frayed as his nerves.

“Earwic, I need my 9-iron!” Donold Jr. shouted.

“And I need my driver!” Grump added.

“I need a new life,” Earwic muttered under his breath.

Finally, at the fourth hole, Earwic snapped. He stomped toward the nearest water hazard and hurled his entire golf bag into the pond. It splashed down with a satisfying ker-plunk.

“What are you doing?!” Grump bellowed.

“I’m freeing myself!” Earwic shouted.

Moments later, Earwic realized his clubs were sinking to the bottom of the pond. With a groan, he kicked off his shoes and waded into the water, muttering curses under his breath.

“Ridiculous,” he grumbled, splashing toward the submerged bag. “They can carry their own stupid clubs next time—”

SNAP!

An alligator burst from the water, its jaws snapping inches from Earwic’s leg. He screamed and scrambled backward, tripping over a rock and landing flat on his back in the mud.

Donold Jr. doubled over with laughter. “Did you see that, Dad? He almost got eaten!”

“Stay focused!” Grump said, pointing to the green. “We’ve got a game to win.”

As the game dragged on, Donold J. Grump’s mushroom burrito began to work its magic. He chatted animatedly with Sparky, who perched invisibly on the edge of the golf cart.

“Good advice, Sparky,” Grump said, nodding sagely as he lined up his putt.

Donold Jr. frowned. “Uh, Dad? Who are you talking to?”

“Sparky,” Grump replied matter-of-factly.

“Who’s Sparky?”

“Loyalty advisor. Very sharp. You wouldn’t understand.”

Donold Jr. exchanged a concerned look with Earwic, who was dragging the remaining two bags up the fairway, drenched in sweat and wheezing like a broken accordion.

The 9th Hole Meltdown

By the time they reached the ninth hole, the beer was gone, and the mood was tense.

“We need more beer,” Grump declared, stepping out of the cart.

“Yeah, we’re out!” Donold Jr. chimed in, holding up an empty can.

While Grump and Donold Jr. disappeared into the clubhouse bathroom, Earwic seized his chance. He dumped the empty beer coolers onto the grass and wedged the golf bags into the cart, securing them tightly with bungee cords.

When his father and brother returned, their faces fell.

“Where’s the beer?” Grump demanded.

“In the clubhouse,” Earwic said through gritted teeth.

“Well, go get some more!”

“No,” Earwic said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “I’m done.”

“What do you mean, ‘done’?” Grump barked.

“I mean I’m freeing myself!” Earwic shouted. With that, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal, sending the cart careening across the course.

The golf cart tore through the manicured grass, jumped a curb, and barreled across a highway, narrowly missing a delivery truck. Donold J. Grump and Donold Jr. stood dumbfounded as Earwic steered the cart onto a wooden pier that jutted out over the ocean.

“Earwic! Stop!” Grump shouted.

But Earwic had already leapt from the cart. The vehicle teetered at the edge of the pier before plunging into the water with a resounding splash.

Earwic threw his arms in the air triumphantly. “Free at last!”

Before Earwic could savor his victory, three Secret Service agents appeared out of nowhere, sprinting down the pier. They tackled him in a flying dogpile, sending all four men tumbling into the ocean.

As they surfaced, spluttering and flailing, one agent shouted, “He’s fine! He’s fine!”

Another agent grabbed Earwic by the shoulders. “We’ve got you, sir!”

Earwic coughed, shaking his head. “I don’t need saving—”

But before he could finish, one of the agents leaned in to administer CPR, blowing air into his mouth. Earwic’s eyes snapped open, finding their lips now mere inches apart.

“Uh... hi,” the agent stammered, pulling back quickly.

Earwic groaned. “Great. Just great.”